The days without Sherlock
by capricorn5
Summary: A small narration from John's point of view on his life after Sherlock died. The thoughts of a heartbroken man right before Sherlock comes back from the dead.


It was a dark and grey afternoon at 221B Baker Street. John had moved Sherlock's chair next to the window and was seeing the world outside, blurred by the pouring rain. It was cold and he had brought a small blanket to cover his legs. His hand was stiff and he closed it in a fist, to make the feeling go away. He had been reading a book but gave up on it a little after starting it. He just wasn't in the mood for reading.

Mrs Hudson had left the building a few hours earlier. She had an appointment at the doctor. She told him not to forget his own appointment with the therapist. He hadn't. Still, he didn't go. The therapist was helping, that was certain, but in a day like this he just couldn't get himself to leave the flat. It happened from time to time. Mrs. Hudson would always complain. But she didn't understand and John would never explain it to her, it was too painful. He dreamt with him, sometimes. He dreamt they were both there and alive – not just alive, but really living – and they were running together, and laughing and enjoying. But the dreams, that started always well, ended up always in the same way. St. Bart's roof. A man wearing a long coat, and he looked like he was flying. But he wasn't. John never dreamt of the moment he hit the ground, but he always woke up with an apparently physical ache in his chest, panting in panic. He would get up and call Sherlock's name and run down the stairs and look for him in the apartment. And he would then realise it wasn't just a dream. Unfortunately, Sherlock was dead and would never answer his call again.

John swallowed hard. This had been one of those days. He had wandered in the house for a while, trying, with no success, to contain his tears. He finally gave up and sat on the floor, leaning against a wall, sobbing for what seemed an eternity. It had been so long. And still, it looked like it had been yesterday. When John heard Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs he got up, putting himself together. He had become an actor. A very good one at faking emotions, at hiding his pain. Except for the limp, maybe. The limp had come back. He had tried to ignore it and walk without the cane but it became too painful after a while, so he just gave in to it. He barely went out. He had tried to look for a new job and had succeeded several times, but he would always give up, because there were days it was hard enough to be alive, talk about going to work.

He hadn't yet removed any of Sherlock's things from the flat. Mrs. Hudson had tried to convince him to do so, but he refused. He told her he would leave if she made him do it. She didn't want to be alone as well, so she stopped asking. He was surrounded by his things - the violin was still on the stand, dusty and out of tune. The skull was on top of the fireplace, concealing a pack of cigarettes he had put there so long ago. There were books everywhere. The board of Cluedo was still nailed to the wall with a knife. Sherlock was really terrible at that game. Sherlock's scarf was on a kitchen chair, as if occupying a place didn't remove it. He didn't feel so lonely while eating because it was there.

John rubbed his eyes that had unfocused for a while, submersed by all the memories that came to his mind. He hadn't yet forgiven agent Donovan for bringing all the suspicions. Lestrade had asked for his help several times but John refused. It was too much for him to handle. And Molly had had coffee with him once in the apartment but it all ended when they started to cry compulsively and Molly grabbed her purse and bolted out of the apartment to never come back.

He heard footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was back and would be upset. To be honest, he didn't care.

John looked at Sherlock's laptop. It was closed, resting on the table, as Sherlock had left it. The computer had a password so it was no use trying to use it. An idea came over John's mind. What if, he thought.

He got up from his chair and picked up the laptop, placing it on his knees. He opened it and stared at it for a while, his hands touching the keyboard. He tried to turn it on but it didn't work and John realised it had been there so long it probably had ran all out of battery. He plugged the cable in and waited for it to start working. It did. A text showed up on the screen, asking him for the password. John stopped, looking at it. Thinking. It was such a stupid idea. Wasn't it?

He pressed the keys, quite slowly too, as if he was afraid of what could happen. He inserted a "J". Then an "O". He finally gathered the courage it took and typed the rest of the letters. On the screen you could read his own name written in big letters. "JOHN". He hesitated. Then, all at once he pressed the enter key.

It was going to be "wrong password", he was sure. He would then close the computer and get up and move on, because this was no life.

The session started, a small sound coming from the computer, allowing him to proceed and look at its darkest secrets. John stared at the computer, placed it on the floor and putting his head between his hands he sobbed, not like the war doctor he was, but like a child who had lost his best companion and friend.

A strong hand held his shoulder, almost as if massaging it, applying some pressure. He suppressed a sob and raised his head slowly. Mrs. Hudson would be so worried, she did not deserve for him to break down like this when she was being so brave. He lifted his eyes to the hand holding his shoulder and looked the person it belonged to in the eyes. No, it couldn't be.

Sherlock Holmes looked at him, slightly skinnier, longer hair, a wary look in his face.

"I am sorry." He said.

And then he pulled John close and gave him a tight hug, apologising again. John was unsure if what he was seeing was real or just the product of his tired and hurt imagination. But, just in case, he held him too. John felt that he had let Sherlock fall in that grey afternoon at St. Bart's. He would not let him fall ever again.


End file.
